


"Living in a Four-Letter World"

by farad



Category: Justified
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of season 4, Raylan figuring it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Living in a Four-Letter World"

**Author's Note:**

> Getting ready for the new season, I did a rewatch of the first four seasons and my love for Tim Gutterson bloomed anew, spurred on my the realization that if ever there were a soundtrack for a series, it's Warren Zevon and "Justified". Hence, the title of this piece which is taken, also, from "Dirty Life and Times", on the album "The Wind". 
> 
> Unbetaed, all mistakes my own.

_"Some days I feel like my shadow's casting me_

_Some days the sun don't shine_

_Sometimes I wonder why I'm still running free_

_All up and down the line"_

Warren Zevon, "Dirty Life and Times"

 

 

Raylan sat, sipping on his beer as the sun dropped lower in the sky over the valley behind the house. The shadows cast by the tombstones beside him grew longer, slowly covering the outlines of the graves, blending in the newley-turned dirt of Arlo's with the darkened dirt of Helen's and the grass of his own mother's. Three shades of earth, three deaths, two of them – two of them since he'd come back to Harlan, a mere year ago.

 

Lot of death in the past few weeks, though thankfully, not Winona's or the baby's. His daughter's.

 

The very thought of a little girl made his stomach knot. He didn't know nothing about girls – well, no, that wasn't right. He knew more than his fair share. Which was probably why the very idea of it made him sort of sick. A girl. A girl who looked like Winona. He'd be beating off the boys with a stick.

 

Boys like him.

 

Lord, what if his daughter was like him? The image of Jackie Neveda came to mind, stripping down in that bathroom in the hotel, a girl barely out of her teens.

 

His daughter – a girl like him – could be that way.

 

Shit. He closed his eyes, trying to control the fear. Wondering how in the hell Reno Neveda had dealt with his daughter. Thinking that maybe, he hadn't. Maybe he had been unable to control his daughter, unable to make her understand that men, all of them, were worthless sons of bitches.

 

But then, again, Jackie hadn't seemed particularly heartbroken or needy or -

 

His hand jerked, the bottle of beer slamming into his mouth as he rejected thoughts on this. He took a long pull, finishing what was left. He needed something stronger, maybe the bourbon he had in stored in the house. But as he opened his eyes, intent on getting up to fetch it, he caught sight of the bright blaze of sunlight across the green field. It turned the earth a shade of gold he'd forgotten about, one that had always caught his eye as a boy. One that had caught the eye of his mother, too. They would stand and stare at the beauty of it, for all the moments that they could, until the pull of the Earth's rotation, drew the sun away.

 

In time, not a lot of it, the scene started to dull, the sun's rays receding against the turning of the Earth. When he finally turned away, his eyes fell on the graves, the tombstones hidden in the dusk.

 

He should get the bourbon, go back inside, work on the wall some more. Needed now, more than ever, to get this place sold. Though how he was going to sell it with the Givens family cemetary in the front yard, he wasn't quite sure.

 

That was the thought that was on his mind when his phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and

checked the caller id: Paxton's Funeral Home. The irony wasn't lost on him, that as he was thinking about the cemetary, the funeral home in Harlan calls. The only funeral home he had in his call log.

 

That he had a funeral home in his call log.

 

"Raylan Givens," he said, getting up out of the chair as he answered.

 

"Raylan, this is Hester, down to the funeral home." She had a deep, throaty voice, a lounge singer who had been too long in smoke-filled backrooms, drinking fine liquor. "I hate to bother you, but we have a problem with one of our visitors."

 

'Visitors'. That was funeral-home code for body. Reflexively, he glanced at the graves of his own kin, reassuring himself that the 'visitor' wasn't one of them. Then he thought quickly of his bank account – he'd paid the funeral home for Arlo's casket and the transport, done it on his credit card – it hadn't been rejected, had it? But he'd have known about that much earlier than now . . .

 

"It's this new visitor, Mr. Rhodes," Hester was saying, bringing him back to the moment. "I've been trying to make arrangements for him, but I can't seem to find any family. I was told that he was from a small town in Maryland – Bel Air, as I understand it, but I can't seem to find any kin that will claim him, or who even claim to know him."

 

Raylan sighed. Colton Rhodes, the ex-Army guy that Tim had killed. The one who had killed Tim's friend. He knew a thing or two about Rhodes, most of it stuff that he wasn't supposed to know. Stuff he'd learned when he'd spent a little time off the clock looking over Tim's shoulder while he researched the man.

 

Because Tim had been sure, though there was no actual evidence, that Rhodes had been the man who invaded the dope dealer's home, killed him and the other guy there, Mark, and stolen money and drugs. They hadn't known how much, as there was no way to know how much the dealer had had, but the local cops didn't find any, which was a sure sign of a robbery.

 

"Have you talked to the local police?" Raylan asked, stalling.

 

"Well, I surely tried, of course," Hester said, and though her voice was pleasant enough, he heard a hint of irritation. She wasn't stupid, and she wouldn't have started with him, a fed, to get these answers. "But since this whole mess came up with Shelby – and really, Raylan, who would have thought it? All this time, he was that missing drug man! Anyway, the sheriff's office is turned upside down at this point and while I've called more than once, and they always promise to get back to me, so far, no one has. I can only imagine that this isn't very high on their priority list at the moment – did you know that there's talk of a state investigation into the sheriff's department? I can hardly imagine the things that they'll find. They're talking about bringing back Sheriff Napier, of course – and I think they should. Why we hardly had any problems like this when he was sheriff - "

 

"Hester," Raylan interrupted, not interested at all in the local politics, "let me check around and see what I can find. I'll try to get back to you tomorrow – is that timely enough?"

 

"Why, Raylan, that would be just lovely. Mr. Paxton would greatly appreciate it – why, we might be able to work out a deal on your next necessity."

 

More funeral-home 'speak'. 'Necessity' meant 'funeral'. Which he desperately hoped he wouldn't need anytime soon.

 

"I'll be in touch," he said, terminating the call as she gave more thanks. He sighed again, staring at it. The last thing he wanted to do right now was talk to Tim.

 

No, that wasn't right. He turned, looking out in the hillside once more. The sun was gone, the dusk settling in. What he wanted more than almost anything was to talk to Tim.

 

Problem was, he had no idea what to say. He stepped up onto the porch, pulling open the door, but it wasn't the inside of his childhood home that he saw. It was the entryway to Tim's apartment, the night that Arlo had died. The night Art had forced him to take time off.

 

The night that he and Tim had had sex without being drunk – the night with no excuse.

 

They had had sex a few times before that, 'buddy fucks', as Tim referred to them, drunk fucks as Raylan liked to think of them. He didn't have a problem having sex with men, it wasn't that.

 

But that night, the night Arlo had died, that had been different. Art had forced him out, for two days, more or less, but still, Art had orderd him out of the hunt for Drew Thompson.

 

Tim had called him, worried – and to be fair, Rachel had also been part of the deal. They had met in the bar under Raylan's room, started the evening with beer. Rachel had had to meet her husband – he wanted to try to talk, she didn't, but she felt the need to go. They had promised to wait for her, though they hadn't waited long.

 

And while they were waiting, still drinking beer and drinking it slow, Tim had not asked about Arlo. Instead, they had talked about everything else. And it had, as expected, come back around to Drew Thompson. Not once had Tim said anything about Arlo.

 

Not once had he offered any platitude, any statement about losing a parent – which Raylan knew Tim had – about anything personal. It could have been because of Raylan's comment earlier in the day, at the office, when Art had pushed him into taking the time off, when Raylan, pissed at Art, had taken it out on Tim.

 

He thought about that now, as he stood in the kitchen, trying to remember where he'd put his bourbon bottle. The answer to that puzzle came as a muscle memory more so than a brain teaser – it was in the cabinet beside the refrigerator, the 'junk' cabinet as his mother and then Aunt Helen had always called it. The cabinet that no one ever went to except for the liquor, and damned if he hadn't fallen into their bad habits.

 

As he pulled out the bottle and then a glass, he remembered the look on Tim's face as he had snapped at him about not being helpful. In the right light, Tim's eyes were a shade of blue that reminded Raylan of his mother's favorite dress, a deep blue that complimented her dark hair and pale skin, of the blue and white china that she coveted more than any other possession she had.

 

Like his mother, Tim had learned when to provoke and when not to. Like his mother, Tim had learned how to suss out the Givens temper.

 

The idea that Tim and his mother were so much alike led Raylan naturally to the other part of the comparison: that Raylan shared his father's bad temper.

 

That was the thought in his head as he pulled the glass of bourbon to his mouth and downed it, barely feeling the burn of it. What had Hunter said? That he and Raylan both knew which voice spoke to him – and that it wasn't his mother's?

 

Fortunately, the liquor burned when it hit his belly, white-hot and distracting, and for a few seconds, he lost his orientation. Enough so that when he came back, he wasn't thinking about his parents. He was thinking about laying next to Tim, both of them breathing fast and hard in the wake of release. Of Tim's dark lashes against his high, flushed, cheekbones, his lips parted but full and pouty, his long neck arched as he pushed back into the pillow.

 

Raylan loved Winona – there were parts of his heart that he knew he had only because of her. And Raylan loved women. He couldn't go a month without taking a woman to his bed and most likely, trying to save her from – something. Lindsey, Ava, Jackie Nevada, even Winona – he'd been trying to take care of all of them, protect them from – something. Mostly other men.

 

Tim, though – Tim, Boyd, the few men he'd been involved with when he'd had time around and betwixt the women – they hadn't needed protection. It was part of why he'd been attracted to them. They hadn't needed him – or, to be fair, he hadn't felt the need to take care of them.

 

The very thought of it – protecting Boyd or Tim – made him chuckle, the sound of it echoing in the small space, bouncing off the wood paneled walls and hard metal appliances. Those two – those two. He sighed, pouring another shot into the glass. Neither of them would take kindly to being protected – hell, either one of them would shoot him in the nuts for even thinking what he was thinking now.

 

But the night Arlo had died, the night he had had three beers over five hours, the night Tim had offered to let Raylan sleep on his couch, to keep from having to go upstairs to that dump of a room over the bar, Tim had seemed vulnerable himself. Maybe he was worried that Raylan had been serious earlier in the day, when Raylan had said the shit he'd said.

 

Maybe he had his own memories of losing his father, though Raylan was pretty sure that the son of a bitch had hurt Tim as bad as Arlo had hurt Raylan. Maybe worse.

 

He hadn't pushed it on Raylan, hadn't offered anything but the couch. Hadn't asked Raylan anything about his plans – which was good, as Raylan hadn't been sure about those until late in the night, and even then, wouldn't have shared them. It was bad enough that he'd put poor Nelson, the dumbshit, at risk of losing his job.

 

Instead, as soon as they'd gotten in the door of Tim's apartment, Tim had tossed his keys on the counter, started pulling off his jacket, and pivoted gracefully to look at Raylan. His eyes were clear, focused, his head tilted to one side as his arms worked the cloth of his jacket, and he opened his mouth to speak, his lips full and parted and -

 

Raylan had no idea at the time what he was doing, no thought was involved at all. He reached out, gathering Tim against him, unintentionally trapping his arms as Tim was still caught up in his own jacket. Those were the words that puffed into his mouth as he pressed his lips against Tim's, as he drove his tongue against the sounds while wrapping his arms around Tim's waist and holding him close.

 

Tim hadn't fought – Tim never did. But unlike the times when they were both so drunk that they'd been using each other to stay on their feet (at least until they could collapse on a bed), Tim had been stiff, his body rigid and unwieldy. He hadn't resisted, hadn't tried to pull away, but he hadn't pushed back or fought to be the one 'on top'.

 

Raylan had backed away, confused, feeling his sobriety. Yet when he'd started to speak, to blow it off as – well, he didn't know what – Tim had said, his voice low and raspy, "I won't say no, you know that. But we won't have any excuses this time. It is what it is, Raylan, you and me, and nobody else, sure as shit not our parents or our pasts. You and me."

 

Raylan remembered how dry his mouth had been then, how thirsty he'd thought he was. But the need he had wasn't for water or beer or liquor. He'd known it then – and goddamned if he hadn't known it when he'd rolled over at 4 am, before his alarm had gone off, and seen Tim sleeping, his skin pale in the moonlight slipping past the blinds, his slim body curled toward Raylan, one long, muscular arm reaching across the no-man's land of the mattress so that his callused fingers curled loosely over Raylan's wrist. Raylan had laid there, watching him sleep, wishing he could be what Tim wanted – but that was in the back of his head. His main thought was on how to get Nelson to deliver Hunter Moseley to him. How to convince the novice agent that it was all right to give Raylan the man who had killed his father.

 

He had slipped out of bed as quietly as he could, pulled on his clothes, aware all the while that Tim could wake. Aware all the while that he could not look into those deep blue eyes and explain what he had planned and why.

 

Later, as he was driving along with Hunter in the back of the car, he had expected Tim to have some unkind things to say. Instead – instead, Tim had offered to drive to Harlan and check in with the Crowders, try to help Raylan out. It had been a surprise. Then later, at Nobles' Holler, Tim hadn't put up a fuss when Raylan had taken Rachel to go on the quest to find Ellen Mae. He'd not been happy – and in truth, Raylan couldn't rightly blame him. They'd left Tim having to deal with the state-ys when they'd arrived to search Nobles' Holler, left Tim to have to deal with the paperwork, the politics, and what was most likely going to be a bullshit situation.

 

Tim had pulled a lot of shit on this detail. It had made Raylan wonder what Tim was thinking, about his own father's death, about Raylan. He'd wanted to tell Tim that it wasn't the same, not by a long damned shot. But then, he'd never talked to Tim about his dad. And unlike Tim, who had had the not-so-great-pleasure of meeting Arlo at the VFW, Raylan had never met Tim's dad. It was possible that Arlo wasn't as bad as Tim's own dad. Hard to believe, maybe – if for no other reason than that Tim's dad had had the generosity to die while Tim was still in basic training, still a kid. But Raylan couldn't compare.

 

All he had was Tim, offering to help out – and Tim had. In a big way.

 

And now – now.

 

He hadn't been aware of drinking the next shot, but the glass was empty and he was still standing at the counter, staring at the bottle. It was dark outside and he needed to figure out what he was going to do. He'd promised Hester some information.

 

He needed to talk to Tim about Colton Rhodes.

 

And hell, he needed to talk to Tim.

 

Winona was with her mother, safe and sound. They had protection, though it didn't seem that now, in the wake of the change of the guard in Detroit, that Winona was in danger.

 

Lindsey was gone, who knew where. Jackie Nevada – well, hell, he didn't need to think about that. And Ava – well, Ava was in a world of hurt all her own.

 

But Tim was there, in the office, Tim was someone he couldn't avoid.

 

And if he let himself think about it, when he let himself think about it, Tim was pretty much the only person he didn't want to avoid.

 

He poured another shot, but smaller this time. The liquor was burning in his belly but it was a soft burn, like a warm fire on a cold day, like good cup of coffee on a cold winter morning.

 

Tim had covered for him, even though Tim was going through his own shit. The loss of his friend, Mark, which Raylan was just coming to understand. That had been the next day. While Raylan was figuring out how to make Nelson bring Hunter to him, figuring out how to find Drew Thompson, Tim was dealing with the death of a good friend of his. He was figuring out the clue Mark had left for him – then, the day after, he was figuring out how to get him, Art, and the decoy team out of an explosive set-up that was designed to kill them all – or, if things had done the way Boyd expected, designed to let Boyd's team kill Drew Thompson, and anyone else who got in the way.

 

But Tim had recognized the set up – almost gotten killed, but also saved a lot of lives with his experience.

 

He'd been a hero, too, in his own way. Not on the scale that Raylan was, finding the notorious, 30-year-missing witness who could bring down Theo Tonin (if he ever came back from Tunisia). But he had saved Art and 5 KSP officers, and gotten them back there in time to keep Raylan and Bob from being killed.

 

He picked up the bourbon, swirling it in the glass. The kitchen's light wasn't bright, but it caught in the amber liquid, turning it to a soft, buttery gold. Raylan turned from the counter, walking slowly into the living room. He stared out the window into the deepening darkness. The beauty was there, damn Drew Thomson for drawing his attention to it. Though he was also thankful; this was why his mother had loved this place. Probaby why Helen had too.

 

A random through skirted across his mind then, a wonder if Tim, too, would appreciate this view. He was, after all, a lot like Raylan's mother. And aunt. A lot like all the people Raylan valued.

 

Somewhere along the way, he put down the glass of bourbon, still untouched, and replaced it with his phone. He was still staring into the falling night when his fingers skimmed over the call list to find Tim's number. It didn't take long, it hadn't been that long since he'd talked to him. Two night ago.

 

An infinity.

 

"Gutterson," the voice on the other end came back, low and flat, professional. As if he hadn't looked at the caller id and known it was Raylan. As if he thought Raylan might only want his professional abilities.

 

As if what had happened just the night before the last phone call hadn't happened. Because Tim didn't trust that Raylan would remember – or, worse, that Raylan would honor it. He was giving Raylan a way out, a way to make pretend it never had.

 

A way to ignore it, as Raylan had been trying, until these last few minutes, to do.

 

"You think you know me that well, huh," Raylan said, speaking as if Tim knew his thoughts.

 

And Tim did, of course. On the other end, he made a sound, a cross between a snort and a sigh. "What do you want?" he asked, and though there was a hint of amusement, there was more tiredness in it.

 

"Can't I just want to talk to you?" Raylan asked, almost offended – almost. The memory of Hester's need was still there in his head, a reminder that Tim was right. If it hadn't been for that, he might have avoided this call even longer.

 

"You could," Tim said, "but it ain't damned likely. Who do I need to kill?"

 

He wanted to be annoyed, and the words alone would have been enough. But there was something in Tim's tone, now, a softness that hadn't been there before, as if he'd decided to let Raylan in. As if he'd decided to accept whatever game it was Raylan was playing.

 

"It's Friday," Raylan said. "Where are you?"

 

"Strange as it sounds, Raylan, not all of us get time off for bad behavior. Drew Thompson was in here all day, as was his friend Ellen Mae. Gave us lots of stuff – hell, you'd be coming all over yourself if you knew what Ellen Mae gave us on the Crowders. But since you're not, it's left to the likes of Rachel and me to type up these reports and try to see if we can find our way clear to figure out what to do next. Thank God Art's hear to give us direction in your absence." The sarcasm was biting, but still, under it, there was something. Though he was still keeping it purely about work.

 

"So he's got you working late? Is that it? You planning to go arrest Boyd tonight?" That thought made him a little queasy, for reasons he really didn't want to think on.

 

"Nah, Art figures that'll keep 'til at least Monday. He wants to have that ADA look over what Ellen Mae said, since he's not sure what we can actually take to court - and what is more state than federal. We'll be out of here in a while – hell, Rachel's already turning off her computer. Says she's got a hot date with some guy she met in that diner."

 

Rachel said something in the background that Raylan couldn't make out, but he could tell by her tone that she was teasing. "Have fun," Tim said, his voice distant, away from the phone, talking to Rachel.

 

"Tell her it's all right to shoot someone on the first date," Raylan called, "but try not to wait too long."

 

"Yeah, I don't think so," Tim answered, this time louder and at Raylan. "You can do that, next time you see her."

 

Raylan smiled, trying to envision that situation. It wouldn't happen. Instead, he said, "So how much longer you gonna be there?"

 

"Why, you got some other thing I can do for you?" Tim asked, and this time, there was a sharpness in his tone. He wasn't going to make this easy for Raylan.

 

"Well, as a matter of fact, yes," Raylan answered, feeling put upon himself. "I'm in this big old house, all by myself. Though maybe some company would be nice – some company that ain't out to shoot me."

 

"Who says I ain't out to shoot you?" Tim asked, but the sharpness was gone. "You want me to drive all the way up there just to hold your hand?" His voice was lower now, though, softer, and Raylan suspected that Tim had turned to one side, so that anyone else in the office couldn't overhear.

 

"Well, you could help me paint the wall, when the plaster sets." When Tim sighed, Raylan went on quickly, "But you could just watch me. Maybe offer some practical advice – or even some not practical advice. And get me a beer every now and then."

 

Tim was quiet on the other end of the line, but Raylan heard enough background noise to know that he hadn't dropped the call or hung up. He waited, letting Tim think it through. Knowing pretty much what Tim was thinking.

 

"Do I need to bring a sleeping bag?" Tim asked eventually.

 

"Got plenty of beds," Raylan said, and there was a new warmth in his belly, one that had nothing to do with the liquor. "Hell, for you, I'll even change the sheets, put on some clean ones."

 

"I can't paint for shit," Tim said.

 

"Up there with your hand-writing and singing?" Raylan asked, but he found himself grinning. "Long as you can fetch beer."

 

"Long as there's enough beer for me," Tim said.

 

"You might want to pick some up on your way up," Raylan suggested. "Maybe another bottle of bourbon, too."

 

"A pizza, too? Did you just call me to make a delivery run for you?" But Raylan could hear the smile in Tim's voice too.

 

"You don't have to," Raylan said, "but if you want to, it'd be mighty nice. And I might get the first coat of paint on, before you get here." He turned and looked at the wall. The plaster was drying pretty well.

 

"See you when I get there," Tim said, and shut down his end of the call.

 

Raylan stood, looking at the wall, then turning to look out into the night. He hadn't asked Tim to bring the information on Colton Rhodes. He didn't have to. Tim had it memorized. That could wait until in the morning, too.

 

Right now, the important thing was that Tim was coming here.

 

And Raylan wanted him to. Wanted him to come see the view.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
